I almost turned around three times on the way to the shop.
The little bell above the door of Black Vein Studio jingled like it was laughing at me. The place smelled like green soap, metal, and something darker—ink and skin and the faint sweetness of the aftercare balm they used. My palms were damp. I kept rubbing them on the sides of my jeans while the girl at the front desk looked me over with polite boredom.
“Appointment?” she asked.
“Aria Ellis. n****e piercing. Two o’clock.”
She tapped something on the screen and nodded toward the black leather chairs along the wall. “Silas will be with you in a minute. Fill this out.”
I sat, clipboard on my knees, and tried to stop my leg from bouncing. The consent form was long. Risks. Aftercare. The part that said the piercer had the right to r
